Page 17 of Built Orc Tough
He collapses onto the stool like a fallen tree.
Behind me, I catch the faint swish of Ivy’s movement. She’s not hovering—yet—but I can feel her presence from the other side of the shop, like a cold draft beneath a door.
I measure the herbs into a teapot, then fill it with steaming water from the kettle. “You been eating dairy again?”
“Only goat’s cheese,” Norren says, voice muffled.
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re allergic to goats.”
“They’redelicious,” he whines.
I set the pot in front of him. “Sip. Slowly. Don’t whine or the potion curdles.”
He drinks. The effect is almost instant. His breathing eases, the redness in his eyes starts to fade, and after a few minutes, he sighs like someone just peeled the weights off his chest.
“Saints above,” he murmurs. “You’re wasted in this town. You should be curing royalty. Or at least dating someone who isn’t allergic to sunlight and personality.”
I grunt, pulling the teapot away before he drains the last drop. “That’ll hold for a few days. Come back if the congestion returns.”
He slides a coin pouch across the counter and waddles out, waving dramatically with a bright blue kerchief like he’s just survived an opera.
I turn to clean up the leaves when I realize Ivy’s standing much closer than before.
She’s watching me.
Arms crossed, but not defensively. Just thoughtful.
“That was impressive,” she says.
I pause. “Thanks.”
She picks up one of the dried bluebell stems and rolls it between her fingers. “You used ginger root with it?”
“It balances the inflammation,” I say, washing the teacup. “Keeps the congestion from shifting to the chest.”
She nods, slowly. “And the chamomile’s for... comfort?”
I glance at her. “And to keep the dumbass from panicking when he can’t breathe.”
She laughs, a short burst that catches her off guard. “You really don’t sugarcoat anything, do you?”
“Doesn’t help the medicine.”
She’s quiet for a beat.
“I always thought herbalism was mostly placebo,” she admits, not like a confession but like she’s unlearning something she was once proud to know.
“It is,” I say simply. “For some. But not all. There’s intention in it. That matters.”
She brushes a curl from her cheek and looks down at the bluebells again.
“They’re considered unlucky in city shops,” she murmurs. “People think they curse the other flowers.”
“Out here, we use them for clarity,” I say. “Superstition’s just regional bias.”
Her lips twitch. “I like that.”
We fall into silence—not uncomfortable, not tense. Just… quiet.
